


This Small Dark Place

by roxymissrose



Series: This Small Dark Place [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Light BDSM, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Once, there had been days when the harness would have been the whole of what he'd wear. Once, he'd have been granted the permission of clothing as a reward.</i>  What happens when everything you've ever known changes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Small Dark Place

Jensen wakes up before right before dawn—four AM, every day, like clockwork. Has, for as long as he can remember. He takes a shower in the bathroom connected to his room. Ten years, and he still can't get used to it, it still seems like an outrageous luxury. 

He showers quickly but efficiently in the barely warm water. He still remembers baths that were less about getting clean, and more about entertaining. They went the way of his youth. It's been a good thirty, nearly forty years now, since he bathed for the pleasure of others.

He walks slowly, carefully, back into his small sitting/bedroom. Opens the closet and examines the small selection of well-made, dark-colored suits. On the floor, set in neat racks are several pairs of dark leather slippers, and a couple of pairs of leather city-shoes. Folded on a shelf above the shoes are five grey, high collared shirts…Jensen strokes the fabric and he smiles. Remembers when mas— _Mister_ Houseboy offered to take him shopping. 

 

_"You need to update your wardrobe, come into the Century of the Harrier with the rest of us, Jenny—oh dear, I mean, Mr. Jensen."_

_"Please do not worry, masterHouseboy. We will make mistakes. And speaking of mistakes, forgive me—of course, I meant to say 'Mister Houseboy'. Or…what…what is your rank now?"_

 

Jensen frowns at the memory. It's all so very confusing. 

He lays the day's outfit on the bed; pulls open a drawer full of no-longer allowed accessories…out of habit, really. He rolls the glass plugs across the bottom of the velvet-lined drawer. Why keep them? Why do anything he does now? He unfolds a tangle of straps and steel rings and slip-hooks. The leather is worn soft and a bit thin. It smells only of oils now, a faint hint of the spicy-scented wood the little dresser is made of. 

Once, there had been days when the harness would have been the whole of what he'd wear. Once, he'd have been granted the permission of clothing as a _reward._ He shakes his head, refolds the harness and slides it to the back of the drawer. He closes the drawer with a snap of his wrist. In those days, he'd been pretty as a curse and Master had been…young.

With a sigh, he goes to stand before a polished metal mirror set into the stone wall. Carefully, slowly, he brushes one hundred strokes into his still thick, white hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. His eyes, though, are on the fine lines webbing every bit of his skin, the soft, crepey pouch of skin under his chin, the quail's track at his eyes….he sighs again. From a small ivory box, he applies the jewelry that he feels most in need of wearing. There's a tiny pot of kohl and some tinted gloss, tucked under a jumble of cotton handkerchiefs. He dips the tip of his pinky finger in the kohl and smudges the faintest bit at the outside corner of each eye. He mostly does it to keep the roomGirl happy—she will insist on bringing him these little cosmetics, and though it makes him feel ridiculous and ancient, he'll dab a bit on from time to time. Plus, it makes Him happy and that's a habit he's found almost impossible to break, even after all these years. Jensen hides the cosmetics back under the cotton squares, chuckles softly to himself. The only really useful things she brings him are the handkerchiefs. 

Jensen slips on a silk shirt the color of rain clouds, buttons it to the neck. The trousers next, the buttons tight again over the soft swell of his stomach. Jensen rolls his eyes—he does that frequently in the privacy of his room—he'll never understand why He can't see that that slim figure Jensen had once had was long gone. He squeaks a bit when he manages to close the button. If he can get a bit of thread from the roomGirl, he'll fix the pants this evening. 

Jensen wonders when He will finally catch on. Frowns. _Gods know, you can lead a horse to water…._

He settles a black jacket of a slightly heavier fabric over his shoulders—slow going because the joints of his shoulders tend to ache and creak quite a bit. A lifetime of service has definitely left its marks but Jensen considers himself fortunate. In so many ways, he really is.

Jensen turns slightly left and right, examines himself in the mirror, musing…he holds the jacket closed but decides it's best to leave it open. 

"So. Ready for the day," he murmurs, before opening the window just enough to let a bit of fresh air into the room. 

Through the slightly open window, Jensen hears the sounds of the plantation waking up. He hears the soft whirr of motors, the heavy, hollow clop of hooves; the draught horses heading to the forested parts of the plantation…a high, shrill scream freezes him in his steps; he lets out a long hiss of relief when it trails off in laughter and pretends his heart isn't racing. 

Children. 

In his day, children didn't run about on the lawn; one rarely saw them at all unless it was harvest season…

He leans elbows on the deep window sill and closes his eyes. Head tilted, he stays very still and listens—absorbs the slap and rattle of tack, the horses snorting and whickering to each other as the last bit of tension runs out of him. It was a good sound, that. When he was younger, Jensen had spent hours tending to the horses, lived in their stalls—ankle-deep in horse shit and hay. His fifties had been very, very, good years for him. 

 

_"Toy."  
Jensen disappears and it's Toy who slides to his knees, wincing inside at the unattractive snap-snap they make as he kneels. Well, that was why he was in the stables, after all. He kneels, striving to attain and maintain that perfect, still form, make his back one long smooth arc down to his arms, folded against the stable floor. _

_"Please get up, Toy. I want to speak with you."_

_Toy rises, smooth as possible; with age came leniency and he's allowed the slight wobble he can't contain. His eyes remain slightly down and to the right, politely avoiding contact._

_"I'm going into the city and I want you to come with me. I have some things I need to pick up, and there's an auction I'd like to attend. I could use your advice."_

_Toy nods. "Of course. I'm sure I can offer suggestions towards purchasing a suitable bedmate for the Master. I'm sorry that I fail to please now, but thank you for the honor. Master."_

_"What are you going on about?"_

_Toy barely manages to suppress a flinch. He has no idea where he'd gone wrong…maybe presuming to thank a master? Though he's fairly certain that he had leave to speak freely…it wouldn't be the first time he was wrong. "Ah…thank you for being allowed to serve…and…and for finding a useful place for me."_

_"I *wish* you wouldn't speak like that…I… Are you angry with me? It's because of this, isn't it—but it's not a punishment, don’t you see—"_

_Jensen takes a quick breath—this talk of anger on Master's part almost makes him want to laugh. "You wanted to speak to Toy…so." He avoids eye contact and tries to use his smallest, sweetest voice—much harder to do as the years have gone by and age has roughened his throat. "Toy answers…"_

_"Oh! Oh gods—Jensen, I'm sorry, so sorry. Jensen, really, don't be angry, I swear this is not a punishment."_

_Jensen looks up, eyes still firmly to the right, but he smiles—gives his careful, fleeting impression of a smile—because Master Jared likes to see expression. "Oh, I know. This is…this is the most wonderful thing you've ever done for me." Jensen knew full well a bedmate in its fifties was a waste of resources. A *ridiculous* waste of resources._

_"A wonderful thing, is it? Because you are alone, because no one bothers you. Because you hardly ever have to see me."_

_The words fall soft and emotionless on Jensen's ears. He knows that tone, knows it well. He hears the pain, fears it still. But he also feels the joy of being Jensen as well and there's little room for both feeling both: joy, and the fear that comes of failing to please._

 

Jensen closes the door to his room. That was many years ago, and things are different again. He'd lost the stables, the horses, Master moved him back into the House. And of course, he was to understand that was not a punishment, either.

Jensen's steps are careful as he walks the stone floor. There were here and there uneven spots and it wouldn't do to take a tumble. Not that these days damaged thrall were rendered if they were deemed a waste of resources. There were many vets now, _doctors._ Doctors, of course. Change and change and somehow, all that change seems to pass him by, Jensen thinks with a sigh. At least the young ones benefited from all these changes. He smiles, immediately bowing his head and lifting a hand to cover his mouth. He knows it's not forbidden now but showing any kind of emotion in public was so very difficult still.

Changes. Sometimes it seems like a dream, a lovely, impossible dream. Sometimes, it’s a burden that he drags behind him, heavier with every step.

** 

No one hears him move through the halls—his steps are silent, the soft leather House shoes muffling his footfall. He walks into the Kitchen hall and nearly gives masterHouseboy a fit. 

"Oh, my stars, Mister Jensen! You nearly gave me an attack!" 

Jensen nods, not really repentant but of course, careful not to let it show. "Here for the Master's breakfast."

"Oh, oh, um." masterHouseboy scratched his chin. "Well, well…Renna here is about to take him his breakfast. You…you're supposed to get breakfast for yourself and then go out in the garden, he said…."

Jensen shakes his head. "I've been fetching Him his breakfast for nearly sixty years. Even when He tried to get rid of me, I'd tend the horses, muck out the stalls, clean up and still bring him his breakfast, masterHouseboy." 

"Ach-- _Mordomo,_ Mister Jensen! Won't you call me mordomo!" He throws his hands up in frustration and Jensen gives in to a dry, whispery chuckle. 

He remembers when masterHouseboy actually was a boy—skinny and shy and given to crying bouts over his sold-away dam. He'd been punished a number of times before Jensen managed to bring him under his wing. A subtle push here, and gentle prod there, and Master had decided that the skinny, useless kitchen drudge had some promise and ordered him apprenticed to masterHouseboy-who-was. Master-- _Mordomo_ \--for some reason remembered Jensen's attempt at kindness—more, had honored Jensen, as much as it had been possible in those days. After the change, he'd taken to calling Jensen 'Mister' like a freeman…which, Jensen supposes, he is now. 

Renna, the new thrall—Jensen tsks— _hire,_ the new hire, stands uncertainly at Mordomo's side. The big silver tray she holds in her hands wobbles a bit. Understandable, she's a tiny thing, probably no more than fourteen. Well past a first breeding. Jensen looks into her face, marvels at the way she meets his eyes. She looks tired, hot, and a little frustrated but alive. Lively. There is life behind her eyes, her chestnut skin is unmarked…Jensen smiles and holds his hands out, patiently. 

He picks up on the look Mordomo and the young girl exchange. He feels a bitter wave of impatience and…and anger, actually. He is perfectly capable of carrying a breakfast tray, damn it. For nearly sixty years he's done it and save illness and the impertinent Houseboy, he's done that. And more. Always, he's done more. Did more. 

 

**  
He walks carefully into the Master's study. Sets the tray on a stand inside the alcove that leads to the study. He closes the door, and carefully, slowly, removes his clothing, neatly folding them and placing them on a shelf in the alcove. Beneath the shelf, the stone wall is oddly warped. He glances at the poorly repaired stone—where bolts once held heavy iron rings. He ignores the empty spots, lifts the tray. Holding it slightly to one side, he quietly enters the room.

Master is sitting close to the new electric fire, reading. 

When he'd had it first installed, Jensen had been the first to see it "It's a marvel, Jensen, no need for wood or cleaning and it’s perfectly safe." Jensen remembered murmuring some appreciative words, no idea what he'd actually said then…Master was always full of enthusiasm for the new.

He looks up with a smile when Jensen walks into the room. Jensen ignores the sadness in that smile. He places the tray carefully on the table and sinks to his knees at a large tapestry covered pillow. When he'd been young, there was never a pillow. But nowadays….

"Jensen," Master murmurs, "Are we going to have this conversation every day for the rest of our lives?"

"Yes, Jared. We are." 

Jensen is proud with himself. The _'Jared'_ rolls out with just the slightest hesitation that only another thrall would have noticed. Master snickers, sounding like the eight year old Jensen had been gifted to. "All right then, Jensen." 

He reaches for the tray, but Jensen is faster, prepares Master's coffee, spreads a little butter and creamed honey on the toasted bread as He sips. Jensen has the toast ready in an instant and the hot cereal has the right amount of butter and sugars that the Master enjoys. Jensen knows all of this; he's always done his best to please. 

Master eats, and Jensen sits, head bowed, back as straight as possible, hands palm-down on his thighs. They shake—but just a little. There's little sound, the quiet, artificial crackle of fire eating at the illusion of wood in the grate, the iconoscope muttering and buzzing on its shelf….

Master says, "Oh," and turns the sound higher, the iconoscope hums and the image jitters before the screen and the audio settle. Jensen sneaks a peek at the icono. 

It takes a moment before Jensen understands what he's seeing—it seems today is the tenth anniversary of The Manumission. There are scenes on view from all around the nation: parades, freemen marching through the streets waving banners, or holding high pictures of loved ones still sought…there are music and speeches and Jensen makes patterns of the swirls of colors on the rug. Master touches the back of his neck but years of training keeps Jensen from startling. 

"You've done very well; now please sit up here with me, won't you?"

Jensen sits next to Master, and accepts a cup of coffee from him, lets master wrap a robe around his shoulders. "Thank you, Jared," he says, infusing his words with as much sincerity as possible and Master smiles happily. 

"This is a wonderful day, Jen. It's so important. We worked so hard for this, it still seems a miracle to me."

Jensen cuts his eyes towards Master, it was easy to conceal and Master never did learn to notice Jensen's notice of him. Jensen watches His smile grow, His eyes sparkle with emotion and unshed tears. Master reaches out unseeing; a thin hand searching for Jensen's, so Jensen takes it. He's learned so many skills, and chief of those skills was to be pleasing. 

Master turns his head to Jensen. "Isn't it amazing? Isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes, Jared. It really is." Jensen shudders hard, and his hand slips out of Master's, curls into a fist and he rests it on his leg.

"Here, you're cold; slide your arms into the sleeves." He leans close to Jensen and kisses his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I wish you'd move into the bedroom with me, that tiny room is like a little stone icebox." He gazes deep into Jensen's eyes. "I love you so much Jensen, I've loved you all my life, it feels like. The greatest day I ever had was when I handed you your papers of freedom." Master's eyes are locked on Jensen…waiting. Jensen sighs inside. Master always wanted more, more and more and more. 

The silence grows until Jensen carefully climbs to his feet. "It’s time to return the dishes or Cook will be angry. Did you enjoy your breakfast?" 

Master's expression wavers until it settles on mild interest. Jensen chooses to ignore the  
broken-open look that preceded it. He leans close, and gently brushes back the strands of grey hair that will insist on falling across Master's eyes. "Jared. I'm…very grateful. Every Manumission Remembrance, I think on how grateful I am."

"You're grateful, but you don't love me." 

Master's voice is so dark, so flat, that Jensen shudders—he can’t hold it back. His eyes drop and his shoulders pull forward, making himself as small as possible, as small as stiff joints and bones and muscles will let him. "I'm so sorry, Master," he says quickly, voice trying desperately for small and pleasing.

"Oh! Jensen!" Master's voice is full of horror, sadness…betrayal. It's that note that stiffens Jensen's spine and brings his head up again.

"Let me take this out," he says and takes the tray up, gods are watching out because it remains steady and his step is quick and certain. The celebration going noisily on the iconscope's screen drops, low enough for Jensen to hear, "You will never love me."

Jensen smiles softly. It's true. Jensen had loved Him once, when he was very, very young and very stupid. He learned his lesson well—his value always rested in what a quick study he was. Now, he's older than any thrall could reasonably have expected to live. His years are short now, and he's grateful that they're comfortable. So he calls Him _Jared_ like he insists and gifts Him with as much discipline and respect that he is capable of. Though the fact that He doesn't want it anymore, that it actively makes him uncomfortable…well. Jensen takes his pleasure where he can.

~end~


End file.
